Your Photograph In Hand
by Glyphron
Summary: (Alternate/Modern Universe) It has been a long time since Fenris left Kirkwall, parting ways with Hawke. Now he walks into Hawke's estate for the first time in years, but Hawke is not there. Hawke has not been there for some time. He sifts through Hawke's belongings, reminiscing about their time together. And in his search, he discovers something precious Hawke left for him.


(An AU story inspired by a picture I saw and a prompt. The prompt of inspiration was Hello by Adele and was prompted by fenrisofseheron on tumblr.

As clarification this is simply a modern AU, where everything is pretty much the same, but in current times. After defeating Danarius, you talk with Fenris, but one of the options available for dialogue will lead him to leave saying he will travel west. This plays of of that concept. And the story is set after Inquisition, when things have calmed down and it would be possible for Hawke to return.

Complete with an alternate ending, because it really needed one.)

The door creaks open, the wood at its frame complaining of being neglected for too long. From the outside, the house almost looks no different than it had before, only the windows don more dirt. Streaked brown by rain brought through the changing seasons. The lawn has not overgrown the confines of the yard, most likely kept tempered by a neighbor in regards to the overall presentation of the neighborhood. Roof tiles were all present and still well intact, the paint was still vibrant as ever, and there were no signs of break in by either man or animal. It was almost as though he has only been absent a week or so. He even expects to hear his name echoing over the threshold as he steps inside.

Overcast hanging in the sky, despite the weather man's promise of uninhibited sunshine, there is no real threat of downpour or otherwise. The air is relatively dry, too absent of moisture to be of any concern. Fenris had parked his rusted pick up truck out front and stared at the place for some time before stepping up to the porch. And when, finally, he had collected the bravery needed to turn the handle, he took to drowning himself in the past. The runoff that had collected here, like raindrops in the gutter, were remnants from a different storm. A hurricane.

The tocking of the grand clock is the first sound to greet his ears. An old and tired heartbeat that continues to ever beat on in a somber rhythm. His eyes track across the room to where it stands, poised, beside your writing desk. A massive stack of letters all adorned with little Kirkwall county stamps still lay heaped upon it. Forgotten and unanswered. Your chair is drawn back, left parted from the desk as though you simply got up to tend to something else and never came back to it. His eyes examine the rest of the room, his mind trying not to call up a picture of you hard at work looking through request after request and furiously scribbling notes and replies. Light from the window glancing off of your glossy hair, and making you glow as though lit in destined glory by the heavens.

Everything is blanketed in dust, but not as much as he has expected there would be. Still, it is all dressed in a drab snow, the ashes of what once was, perhaps. Where the outside seems unchanged, the inside is completely foreign. Somehow the same, yet aged. It speaks of all the years he has been gone. It creates a sense that the inhabitants had merely vanished into air one afternoon, degrading away into the shadows where they stood. Gone, just like that. Ghosts departing for the afterlife. All except your ghost, which haunts the vast halls of his mind.

The dog bed lay cold beside the fire place, left lonely without its companion to nap in it. The intricate wallpaper you had loved so much is peeling, pulling away from the walls in its gloom. Your mug rests, abandoned, on the coffee table, properly placed atop its coaster. And nothing seems as it should be, the whole room dull without your light to fill it. Fenris pulls himself away from all that is wrong, from the room so empty of you to the kitchen. There is no reprieve to be found there.

His finger snags the switch to the light, flicking it on to be met with a pitiful sight. Dishes dirtied in the act of cooking left piled in the sink, the metal of the faucet encrusted in hard water stains. And the table set for a meal never dished out, with one extra place prepared as though a guest were expected. But, Fenris knows better. How many times did you set the table, placing down a plate for him even when you knew he would not be joining you? How long before it wasn't simply habit anymore, but a wish that would never be fulfilled? Or was it always just your wish that led you to the repetitive action? Over and over and over, waiting. You might as well have waited for the stars to fall from the sky, for all the likelihood it would ever have been granted, even if it really should have been.

The temptation to move over to the place mats, to run a fingertip around the rim of his dish, to rip it from the tabletop and send it crashing to the floor crosses his mind. Only stilled by the feeling of fragility the entire building puts over him. As though disturbing the silence with his own thoughts will break the world around him akin to a mirror struck by a fist. Cracking apart the illusions that let him relive all that came before this ruin, and erasing what is left of you. He could never do that. Any minute you could return, come back. And he wants everything to be just the way you left it, undisturbed. Nothing misplaced. Because, you might just reappear again….

No. You won't. But the hope is hard to kill.

Instead, he moves to the cupboards and begins searching, wanting. He finds your teapot, lovingly stored next to your favorite tea, a mix of your own making. Fenris had always complained of how odd it tasted, how different it was from his preferred earl grey. But, now, he fills the pot and sets it to heat on the stove, intending to brew a cup for himself, eager to taste the portion of your heart that you have placed into your creation. Desperate to taste any form of your affection. He was not surprised when the light blinked on at his command, and is not surprised to find the stove works properly. He is certain Varric continues to pay the bills on your behalf, clinging to the same deep set desire he feels now as he never has. In fact, he expected this too. Varric could never let you go, could never forget you.

He makes way upstairs to the library as he awaits the shrill whistle of the pot to tell him it is ready. Portraits of your family hang in fancy frames on the wall above the shadow line cast from the railing. He looks at each as he climbs. Malcom, Leandra, Carver, Bethany, all posted there so you would never forget their faces. You used to visit them often with a bouquet for each at the cemetery, chatting to their graves as though they could hear you. Fenris hopes they could every time and often wishes he'd had the courage to be there with you during every visit. Holding an umbrella over your head when the weather was poor, and drying the tears from your eyes when grim reality would worm its way into your heart. But, he had hesitated, unsure if it was right for him to do so. He has always wondered if you would rather bear the weight of that burden on your own.

Reaching the last step, he finds an anomaly. The door to the library is shut, the room closed off from the rest of the house. As he recalls, you had always refused to ever close that door. You adored peering inside as you passed to see all the books he had scattered about in his greedy conquest to read them all. It made you happier yet when you caught sight of him perched in the comfort of the hammock and turning yet another page in a new book he had discovered. Never minding the mess he made, or the chaos he left in his wake as he sifted through every shelf, scanning for a title that caught the interest of his mood at that particular moment. He aches for all of the precious time you had spent with him in that hammock. Teaching him how to read with unfathomable patience, and reciting to him all of your favorite stories. Your voice would sometimes lull him to sleep as he listened, a comfort he had never before known.

Silver light from the window peeks through the crack beneath the door, spilling across his feet as he approaches. Turning the handle, he presses the door from his path, wondering if anything has changed. His eyes widen in surprise at what he finds. This room looks neglected, longer still, than the rest of the house so far. The coat of dust resting on everything far thicker, and the hammock is in disrepair as a hook has come loose from the wall. Dropping an end to the floor and throwing the tomes that had been left upon it to the floorboards. Otherwise, every last object is exactly where it was when last he'd seen this room, nothing the slightest bit different. He comes to realize you shut it all away the day he left, never to reopen it, or visit the reminders of those times again. Never to touch any of those many tales you had spent your entire life collecting. Or organize the upheaval he has left behind. It was probably too painful for you to attempt, too difficult. And now, it hurts him as well, too much to touch anything. He turns his back, sorrowfully, and closes the door again.

The cry of the teapot can be heard down below, and he doubles back to steep his drink and afford himself a moment to breathe before he summons up the spirit to enter your bedroom. He pours the water over the leaves and herbs hastily, taking a deep inhale of the unique aroma. The tea cup he has chosen is your favorite one, with its gold trim and exquisitely painted roses. It had always reminded you of your mother's fine china. It should bear the honor of holding your beloved brew again as it always used to. And, as he allows the beverage to cool enough to sip, his mind runs the terrible footage that became the separation of him and you.

You had wandered down to his house at the end of the block that fateful day. Coming to check up on him after such a traumatic encounter with remnants of his hostile past. You only wanted to comfort him, soothe the unbearable sadness caused by his sister's betrayal. Never minding the fact he had taken to your bed and then fled years previous, too damaged to give you a real relationship. Or the distance he kept holding you at, despite all your forgiveness. You were still there for him, as always. And, though he had kept turning you away, there are no words to describe how much he loves you for all that you've done.

He cannot remember what had started the argument, or most of the words that were said. He could not even recall what the disagreement had been about. He hopes, heart heavy like it is comprised of concrete, that it had been something important. For both his sake and yours. What he does recall, sharp like the point and edge of a knife, are his words after the screaming had settled.

'I shall go west.'

That was it, that was all. No appropriate goodbyes, or appreciation for all you had given him. No outward remorse for the damage he was doing to you. And the look on your face, that he had hardened himself towards and braced against then, now takes the breath from his lungs and strangles him like a noose jerked tight. You had looked as though your life was over, the fire in your eyes became cinders of misery. And those cinders were put out by tears leaving them nothing more than dead coals as you stumbled away. You fled from his poor excuse for a home, running to yours. You didn't know it, but he had stared after you, debating whether or not to chase you down, to catch you, and take it all back. But he didn't.

He heard it took you a long time to get ahold of yourself. He heard you went looking for him the next day, not entirely convinced he would truly do it. He heard you were a shattered, drunken, mess for over a week after that. Varric had called him every day for over three months, leaving voice mail after voice mail, giving him updates on the topic of your status. Asking him to come back. Truth be told, he had not gotten far before he had broken down with the overwhelming urge to turn back. But he had already done this, he had already left. You were far better off without his darkness in your life, and the stand still he kept you locked in. You deserved the opportunity to move on. He convinced himself that's what this would do for you. That it would set you free. It didn't. Deep down, he always knew it wouldn't. Maker damn his insufferable pride.

Half the cup drained, he steps back up the stairs to your bedroom doorway, your tea in tow. He was here now, without warning. Varric has never failed to email every so often, trying to keep in contact. Fenris reads every single one, but never once offers a reply. Not even the day he received word you had gone missing, vanishing into the unknown. What could he say? What did he have the right to say? For so long he has been absent. He had left you behind, abandoned, just like this house.

He worries sick about you. So many nights are spent restless and without sleep, his heart pounding and mind reeling. Were you cold, hungry? Were you alone now? Hurt? Scared? Would you be alright? His concern is endless.

He passes through into the room, nervous of what he might find. In all this time, you never wrote to him or tried to get in touch. He wonders if he will find a stash of messages you'd always meant to send, but just couldn't. You were never one to let things get away from you that easily, never the type to let others have the last word. And yet, you had let him go, let him slip away from you with the very last word ever uttered between you.

This room is much like the rest, the decor pasted to the walls coming undone, the dust settled calmly on everything. Your bed is unmade as it often was in the past. With all that went on around you, you had rarely found the time to make it. Your imprint on the side you had claimed for yourself still lingers, softly, in the sheets. And even time could not rid the smell of you from your belongings here. Your clothes and blankets still radiate it like whisps in the air, taunting him. He takes it in, remembers the feel of your body yet again and the great pleasure of your company throughout your time together. Closing his eyes, he can nearly feel your breath on his face as you move to claim a kiss from his lips. The sensation passes in spite of his efforts to feel it longer. He sets the cup at your bedside dresser and looks about the rest of your room.

Nothing remarkable stands out at first. The rug holds no more stains than before, your wardrobe is still neatly packed, your chest of personal treasures undisturbed. Then his leaf green eyes dart to your personal desk, and his interest is captured. There is a book laying there, but it is not your journal. Varric keeps that safely within his custody. Fenris steps over to investigate, focus keen on discerning the meaning of the odd rectangles in its pages. As he nears it, he comes to find it is photo album, and not just any album for that matter. Once, long ago, Fenris had taken to photography, explored it. It was an enjoyable hobby, but, there was never enough time to truly make use of it. Eventually, he had given up on it, finding other pursuits to occupy his spare time. But, not before he had taken many shots with his trusty little camera. This photo album was filled, cover to cover, with all of the pictures he had taken. You had gone through the trouble to develop and place each one within this powerful little book.

He flips through each page, face lit with smiles as he sees yours again. By far, you had been his favorite subject, and he had spent most of his film filling his camera with your attractive aura. Fenris takes his time reimagining every detail of the moments these pictures represent. He could never describe how good this feels after spending so long away. Tears fall as he revels in your careful handiwork, this is another gift he can never repay. Even after he left you all alone, you continued to love him enough to create this. And to keep it, once finished, safe. You did not forget him. Until now, he was unaware just how frightened he was that you had. He misses you so much.

He pulls from the album his favorite picture of you, a depiction of sunkissed trees, heavenly blue skies, and your sweet face beaming with joy. Taking it with him, he returns to the bed and sits on the other side, careful not to alter your imprint in any way. He studies the picture for quite some time, quieting his tender sobs before he pulls from the receiver the the phone that rests on your night stand and holds it to his ear. The dial tone that resounds from the mic does come as a surprise, but he should have guessed. Leave it to Varric to preserve everything in perfection.

Slowly, steadily, he dials your cellphone number. Just days after Varric's message regarding your departure, he had started down this path. This has become a ritual for him, something he takes part in twice every week. Terrified you'll never answer, and just as terrified that someday you will. At first, he always hung up before he reached your voice mail. That progressed to ending the call once he reached your inbox. Until he came to the point of leavong a message every time. It is his secret. Your voice has yet to say 'hello' from the other side. By now, he must've called a thousand times. Just to tell you he's sorry for everything that he's done. But, when he calls, you never seem to be home. Your inbox warns him, as it has for the past while, that you cannot receive anymore messages. But, he acts as though it were prompting him to leave one anyway.

"Hello, it's me," he sighs, "I was wondering if maybe you'd like to meet…."

His voice falls away, and he drops the phone back onto the reciever. He might as well say, 'Hello from the outside.' At least he can say that he's tried to tell you he's sorry for breaking your heart. But, maybe it doesn't matter. It clearly doesn't tear you apart anymore. Right? That's why you never answer.

He silently berates himself. That cannot be true. You would never have composed the album at your desk if you did not care anymore, although he wonders why you left it behind. Perhaps, you left it for him to find, should he ever return. Perhaps you left it solely for this very day. Holding your picture carefully in his hands, he curls up on his side, barely mussing the blanket. He looks upon your face until he falls into sleep, dreaming about the sight of you walking through the door.

ALTERNATE ENDING

"Hello, it's me," he sighs, "I was wondering if maybe you'd like to meet…."

His voice falls away, and he drops the phone back onto the reciever. He might as well say, 'Hello from the outside.' At least he can say that he's tried to tell you he's sorry for breaking your heart. But, maybe it doesn't matter. It clearly doesn't tear you apart anymore. Right? That's why you never answer.

He silently berates himself. That cannot be true. You would never have composed the album at your desk if you did not care anymore, although he wonders why you left it behind. Perhaps, you left it for him to find, should he ever return. Perhaps you left it solely for this very day. Holding your picture carefully in his hands, he curls up on his side, barely mussing the blanket. He looks upon your face in the dim light seeping through the clouds and brown tinted windows. He imagines you walking through the door, your presence breathing life back into the span of this place.

He falls from the edge of the bed in his jolt when the sound pierces the air, tearing through the silence of the entire house. Heart thundering, Fenris pulls himself to his feet, hastily checking to make sure your photograph was not damaged in the tumble. There is a small crease at its corner, but nothing major jeaprodises your perfect features. The phone rings again, and his irises lock onto it, bewildered. Should he answer? Who could it possibly be? Is it you?

The chance to find out comes and goes before he can decide, too uncertain to take action. A regret to dwell upon later. Presently, a strange sensation weighs on his shoulders, a feeling of knowing that this is the moment. The moment for what? Something told him it is pointless to question, he just knows. Everything. His feet take him to the window to gaze into the street below, your photograph in hand. It falls to the dirt gathered on the floor through time, his jaw slacking into a gape. You stand at the porch, pushing your cellphone back into your pocket, looking over his truck.

Nothing worthy of note escapes Varric's ears. He had received wind of Fenris' long trek back down to Kirkwall. As was typical of Varric, he interfered….


End file.
